


The Expenses of Trust (Hey Big Spender Mashup)

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock does not like her silent. <br/>He will save the gag for last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Expenses of Trust (Hey Big Spender Mashup)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Expenses of Trust](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1641) by tristesses. 



He has come to prefer the sound of her voice to all others', whether speaking Standard or Vulcan or any number of other tongues in tones alternately mellifluous and harsh. Nyota's voice is a darting thing that can charm and chide and cut to the quick. Spock does not like her silent.

He will save the gag for last.

Below him, Nyota arches on the bed-linens, tensing and releasing muscles that will cry to be unbound before the night is through. He watches her stretch catlike and settle back. She looks up at him expectantly.

He says nothing as he binds her, wrists and ankles. Firmly, a bit of bite if she struggles. The leather looks opulent against her skin, the hide oiled to a soft sheen. The act feels ceremonial, and he suddenly wants to decorate her: a diadem, a swipe of color on her lips. He runs a hand experimentally over the deep red of her top, across her breasts, then down past her navel. She arches into his touch, and he works his hand under her skirt.   
"Are you prepared?" he asks. Nyota's undergarments are not regulation. He skates a finger over the silky, slightly damp fabric and estimates a 98.7 percent chance it's black.

"Of course," she answers, as if his thumb isn't working its way into the core of her. "Would I have asked her here if I wasn't?"

"Perhaps you were…I believe the colloquial term is 'bluffing'."

"I know her," she says. "After everything--" she swallows, blinking, looking away. It's subtle, but Spock knows shielding when he sees it. He's always been impressed with her controls. She looks back at him, chin lifted even as her hair bleeds like ink over the pillow.

"I know Gaila," she says, a little breathy. "I know her price for trust." She cants her hips upward; it can't be easy with her ankles bound. He obliges her, moving his hand and sliding another finger in. Two.

"Is the price…too high?"

"Are you worried about me?" Her tone is a mockery of sweetness, her smile cold, but he thinks he hears the slightest catch behind her words.

"You are a valuable ally," he says evenly. "Your loss would be regrettable, particularly at this juncture." He crooks his fingers and presses just right, and Nyota's eyes flutter closed.

She opens them, grins wider. White sharp teeth. They will be pleasing against the gag, when the time comes. Her smile creeps up to her eyes.

"Bastard."

He raises an eyebrow, flicks his wrist, and now she can't suppress a gasp. But he slides his fingers out of her. "She will smell me on you," he says.

"Let her. Have you spoken to the Captain?"

Spock shakes his head. "I await an opportune moment," he says. "I believe the Doctor suspects something; he will not leave Kirk unattended."   
She nods. McCoy is a cipher. Vulcans do not guess, but if Spock had to he would place the doctor's allegiance on the side of the Resistance. He is not prepared to risk a miscalculation yet, however. To squander years of work on an inclination towards trust…it would be folly. Yet Nyota lies here, splayed as good as bare, and Spock has met the business end of the knife Gaila carries.

"She could kill you," he says.

"So could you."

He could. It would take so little. He can almost see Nyota's heart where it beats like a bird's in its delicate cage of bone. He knows the correct angle, has recited it to himself in too many knife fights. But the truth of it is that she could have killed him too. All those years ago on a dust-grey planet, the two of them alone and the earth soaked green. He heard her consider it, her fingers on his sluggish pulse, and he didn't truly know her choice until she smiled slow and terrible and whispered, "Join me."

Then she twisted fingers in his wound, and he gasped out, "Yes." And so S'chn T'gai Spock and Nyota Uhura came to sow the seeds of the Resistance. Perhaps something else has sprouted and grown with it. No, he will not kill her. He will kill anyone who tries.

"She could kill you," he says again.

Nyota exhales. "She won't." Then, "Will Kirk kill _you_?"

"You believe I will submit so beautifully?" He leans close, smelling her skin, running a finger over the tie at her wrist. She chuckles.

"I do," she says. "And I believe you'll like it."

Spock nips at her clavicle. If he listens he can feel a thrum of lust and fear hanging in the room like a haze. "Perhaps you have too much faith," he murmurs.

She shrugs minutely. "Nobody's perfect." Her eyes dart to the chrono on her nightstand. "It's almost time. You should--she can't find you here." She sounds apologetic.

He nods, fingering the gag. One last thing now. Something occurs to him. "Do you wish me to…stay? To conceal myself?"

Nyota laughs, a little harshly. "What, hide in my closet? No. Spock, I told you, I know Gaila. Me, alone. Those were the terms. She'll _know_ , and then it all goes to hell."

She is correct, of course. Spock nods. He raises the hand holding the gag, gestures for her to sit up. She opens her mouth, and something in him twists darkly, with revulsion or desire or both. He places the gray linen on her tongue, reaches back to tie it, careful not to catch her hair in the knot.

He runs a thumb over the line of her cheekbone and stifles the sudden urge to say something. Again, Spock feels moved to ceremony. He reaches out tentatively for Nyota's hand like a child afraid to touch for fear of scalding, but he ghosts his index and forefinger over hers anyway. He nods once, superfluously. Then he turns to leave, the door to her quarters closing behind him with a puff of stale air.

He walks a corridor that feels much too dark. Perhaps tonight he will catch the Captain out. Perhaps--

"Commander."

"Lieutenant."

Gaila's eyes match the tease in her voice. "Out for a constitutional?" she says.

"Negative," Spock says. It is all he can think of to say. His eyes flicker to her waist, to the dark hide that sheathes her weapon.

"Armed and dangerous," Gaila says, following his gaze with a sharp smile. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Sir." She flicks her tongue at him, which Spock knows to be both the Orion equivalent of a bow, and, colloquially, a "come on." He could have her in the agony booth for the latter. He will if there is so much as a mark on--no. Spock straightens, drawing his mental shields tighter about him. He has been too lax already this night. He nods, once, then turns on his heel and walks away. He does not spare Gaila a look back down the hall.

He contemplates the expenses of trust as he goes to find the Captain.


End file.
